


Inside My DNA

by masteremeraldholder



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Black Character(s), Character(s) of Color, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Homophobia, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV First Person, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Poetry, Queer Themes, Racism, Rated T for swearing, Self-Harm, black history month, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masteremeraldholder/pseuds/masteremeraldholder
Summary: A collection of works centering around black characters to celebrate Black History Month!
Comments: 32
Kudos: 17





	1. Alive

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been wanting to write this for a very, very long time. people of color's voices are so rarely heard in fandom that it may seem like we don't belong. but we do and we should be proud of our heritage.

Why do I feel this buried anger?

When they:

Say their ignorant comments

Or dismiss us flippantly.

When they:

Smile and speak sweetly

But tell us to stay quiet.

When they:

Expect us to cater to them

Shelter them from their own flaws.

I feel this anger because I should. No longer is it buried.

It is alive.


	2. Wanna Switch? (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these original characters belong to @princesadaisy. i am working on the plot for the upcoming story. [here](https://princesadaisy.tumblr.com/post/190662236130/eloise-and-frankie-these-two-are-new-ocs-that-i) is what they look like. this will be a three-part arc, so stay tuned for more of these precious girls... black lesbians rule!

Francine Woodridge is not sure why the new girl decides to partner with her. It could be that she’s sitting right in front of Francine and does not feel like moving. Or it could be that she’s too nervous to go mingle with the other students. Who knows. Eloise Williams is aloof and alert all at the same time. How she manages to do this is a mystery to Francine.

“So,” Eloise says as she turns around in her desk and drops her notebook on Francine’s. “Aren’t you goin’ to ask me how my first week’s been? I usually get that one by now.”

She’s joking. Calm and stoic Eloise is making a joke. Ha.

Francine asks, “Okay, how’s your first week been?”

“Alright. I didn’t rock the boat too much. And I even made a friend.” From knowing her all of five days, it is clear to Francine that Eloise Williams is not a smiling person. Yet as she says this, the corners of her slim lips turn up. A very faint smile.

Frankie gives a quick laugh. “I won’t be a good friend until I get a full smile outta you.”

Eloise hums thoughtfully before going back to the work at hand. Analyzing the first fragment of  _ The Canterbury Tales.  _ Ugh. English is Frankie’s least favorite class, but Eloise seems to enjoy it.

Frankie dips her head down to scribble something in her notebook. Then, she tilts her head up the slightest bit so that her hair falls in front of her face. Through her dreads, Francine studies Eloise Williams.

Despite what she said, Eloise certainly did rock the boat— more like dinghy— of Lynnmore High School with her looks. She’s a Goth. A  _ black _ Goth.

Her shoulder-length hair is jet-black and straight, half of it pulled back with a floppy, gray bow. She has a stud in her nose— which isn’t even allowed here— and is sporting dark eye make-up and black lipstick. She makes all of it— the bow, lipstick, and even fishnet stockings— look good.

And then that feeling hits Francine in the stomach. That feeling that always comes when she’s around a pretty girl. Crap.  _ Fuck. _ She attempts to cover up her quandary with some pleasant conversation. “I, uh, know you said you’re from Houston. Is this the first time you’ve moved?”

Eloise continues writing in her fluid cursive. So different from Francine’s short, choppy font. “This is the third time since freshman year. First, Louisiana, then Florida, and now Georgia.”

Gosh. Francine knows that Eloise moved because of her Mom’s job, but she still can’t see why someone would leave Houston for dusty, ol’ Lynnmore. It’s a full three hours away from Atlanta.

“That’s gotta be tough,” Francine shakes her head. “Though, I wish my family got to travel more. Sounds cool too.”

“It isn’t, really,” Eloise replies, her voice taking on a glum tone. For how inexpressive her face is, her voice really gives her emotions away. “I wish we didn’t have to move so much.”

Frankie can’t stand the thought of Eloise being that upset by something, so she cracks a lame joke. “Hey, wanna switch families? I could use a break from the Woodridges.”

Eloise looks up. Curious. “You sure? Most people are put off by  _ this.” _ She gestures to her black dress, shoes, make-up, and hair.

“Nah, I think it’s sick.”

Eloise’s nose wrinkles, her black lips curling around pearly white teeth.  _ Woah. _ Her smile is breathtaking. “I’ll have to take you up on your offer, then. I’ve gotta admit, I’m definitely interested in the ins and outs of Frankie Woodridge.”

God, she’s so fricking  _ smooth. _ Francine opens her mouth to say something equally as flirty back, but the bell rings. Damn.

Everyone’s rushing to pack up, and over the ruckus, Missus Donovan shouts, “If you and your partner haven’t finished, you’ll have to do so this weekend. It’s due Monday!”

_ Ugh. _ Francine tries to like Missus Donovan, but she always pulls this crap. It’s senior year for Christ’s sake, why is she bogging them down with dull ass homework?

“I can finish it tonight,” Eloise sets her pen down. She flexes her long, lithe fingers, not at all worried about getting to her next class. “There isn’t much left.”

Francine stammers. “Uh, sure, if you want. I-I’m not tryna dump all the work on you, though.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” Frankie waits a bit before pressing further. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

Eloise does that faint smile again. She’s got a tiny mole right under her nose. “You seem bothered by it. Would you like to help me?”

Francine sighs in relief. “Yeah, that would make me feel a lot better! Sorry, I’ve just got a thing about being perceived as a slackin’ athlete.” It’s a really dumb thing to be anxious over, but Frankie knows all too well that most people think of athletes as meatheads. Francine surely isn’t. Her 4.0 GPA attests to that.

“Don’t be sorry,” Eloise says, packing up her books. “I know what it’s like to be judged.” She stands and shoulders on her bag, then does something that catches Frankie completely off guard.

Eloise takes Francine’s hand and writes on her palm:  _ Sunrise Café. Sat. at 1 pm.  _

Frankie’s mind is mush. Words… What  _ are _ words? She can’t believe this is happening. Is the  _ Good Lord™ _ really showing her mercy?

Before Frankie has the chance to flounder, Eloise is already heading for the door. “I’m lookin’ forward to my first lesson in Frankie-ology,” She says.


	3. Boss

You never woke up and decided to be oppressed. You woke up and decided to be a boss.

To show them what you know, what you can do. Be  _ the  _ boss.

You know more, have been through more than them. There is a boss on the inside, so let it.

Scare them, anger them, awe them.

Boss them.


	4. Wanna Switch? (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what better way to celebrate valentine's day than with BLACK LESBIANS! get hyped!
> 
> more [art](https://princesadaisy.tumblr.com/post/190826703755/more-frankie-and-eloise-also-pls-read) by @princesadaisy for these beautiful, sweet girls!

At track practice that afternoon, Frankie spills her guts to Brianne, her best friend since elementary school. Where Francine is the poster child for lesbians at Lynnmore High, Brianne Gedeon is ‘confusing’ to the Straights because they are genderqueer. 

Brianne came out freshman year— about a year after Francine did— and promptly became the butt of many jokes. The asshole football players have since moved on to more interesting things than harassing Brianne, but every once in awhile, they’ll say something ignorant that never fails to upset Frankie. Brianne just takes it for what it’s worth.  _ Nothing.  _ Frankie truly admires her friend’s steadfast optimism.

“Good grief, I can’t believe she made the first move!” Brianne says, referring to Eloise. “I still haven’t gotten’ta meet her yet. She take Mister Harvey?”

Frankie stretches down to her feet. “Nah, I don’t think so. Believe me, I’ve tried to learn her schedule, but it’s kinda hard to do that without seemin’ like a stalker.”

“There’s a big difference in stalkin’ and, y’know, just  _ happenin’ _ to be in the same place at the same time.”

“You sound like a stalker, Bri.”

Brianne chuckles, and the two get started on their warm-up lap around the track before Coach Bonnie lights a fire under their tails. When they’ve gotten into a good groove, Brianne makes a keen observation. “Say, isn’t tomorrow Valentine’s Day?”

Francine Woodridge was blissfully unaware of the fact. And now that she is aware, it changes  _ everything. _ “Oh, God, I completely forgot! What is she gonna expect? Sh-should I bring a gift?”

Brianne clucks their tongue. “For someone you just met? Heck no! Just calm down, alright? It’ll all go well. Don’t stress and—”

Frankie gives them an awful look. “Please don’t say ‘Be yourself’.”

Brianne laughs.

…

Frankie is up by nine on Saturday morning, even though she usually sleeps until eleven. She washes up, throws on some sweatpants, and has breakfast with Mom. Then, she takes Fresh, their shelter dog, for a lengthy walk around the neighborhood. She gets back home and changes into a short-sleeve button-up and a good pair of cutoffs. After all of that, it’s only ten-thirty.

Francine is losing her mind. 

She paces the living room, then falls to her knees and buries her face in the sofa cushions to muffle her screams of despair. Why, oh, why did Brianne have to open their mouth? Francine could have made it through this day completely oblivious to the fact it was a holiday with a stigma behind it. A commercialized, fabricated type of love. Ugh.

Momma sits down on the sofa beside Frankie with a basket of laundry. “Good Lord, Francine, this girl must be wonderful!”

Eloise truly is. And Frankie doesn’t want to hurt their friendship/relationship with such a crappy holiday. And even worse, what if Eloise only asked her out as a friend? Friends celebrate Valentine’s Day together, right? Frankie’s sure that she would be with Brianne if they didn’t have to help their parents on the farm today. Frankie knows that she’d like to be more than friends with Eloise. But, what if  _ she _ doesn’t?

…

The morning creeps by and Momma drops Francine off at twelve forty-nine— she protested any earlier.  _ Sunrise Café  _ is a small, homey shop right behind city hall. Francine has gone in maybe twice, mainly because she’s not a big coffee person. But their doughnuts are better than  _ Krispy Kreme. _

Frankie sighs and heads inside. Much to her surprise, it’s not packed at all. A single patron is enjoying a pastry and a book in the corner. There’re no lovey-dovey couples kissing or any terrible heart decorations. Francine’s spirits lift. Maybe it’ll be okay! Just a normal study session between two friends.

With that in mind, Francine sits at a table by the door and waits for Eloise. A server promptly comes by and asks for her order. Frankie informs him she’s waiting for a friend, and he heads back for the kitchen. Francine taps around on her phone for a bit, knowing damn well she has nothing to do on it. Brianne gets a crappy signal on the farm and Frankie is currently on a break from social media. She worries her lip between her teeth, desperately wishing she had Eloise’s number.

Suddenly, the bells above the door chime, and in walks Eloise Williams, a satchel at her side and dressed in all black. She drops down in the chair beside Francine, giving a quiet “Hello, Frankie.”

“H-hi,” Frankie waves.

“Had a pleasant morning?”

Sure, if pleasant meant obsessing over everything and nothing. Instead, Frankie says, “Um, yeah, thanks for askin’.”

The server quickly returns and asks for their orders. Eloise orders espresso and Francine settles on iced tea.

“Not a fan?” Eloise asks once he’s gone.

Francine shakes her head. “Not at all. It’s never cold enough for it!”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Eloise half-smiles.

Frankie searches for something to keep the conversation going. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes,” Eloise nods. “This was the first place I came to right when we got here. The staff is polite. That makes the experience ten times better.”

It sounds like she’s been to many places where the staff was not the best. Francine wants to ask more, but she reaches down to her bag and pulls out her notebook before she can say anything dumb. Eloise follows suit.

“There really isn’t much left,” Eloise flips through the several pages of notes. “So, I was hoping to really talk to  _ you _ today.” With that, she closes the book and primly folds her hands together on the tabletop.

_ Jesus. _

Any thought Frankie had of keeping it together goes out the window right then and there. “A-about what?” She asks.

Eloise gives a small shrug. “Anything. I suppose you can tell that I’ve… never had a true friend before. Even in Houston, the Goths were prejudiced and misogynist. But what you said yesterday really got to me and… you’re a good person, Frankie. I’d like to get to know you without the burden of school, if that’s alright.”

Fuck. Did Francine just get friend-zoned? She sure fuckin’ did. Frankie would be lying if she said she wasn’t hurt. But after what Eloise just said, just being her friend would be cool too.

Francine knows that she’s a romantic at heart, that she gets weak in the knees just from a random girl on the street smiling at her. Is that what’s happening with Eloise? But it felt so… real. Genuine and… powerful. Nevertheless, Francine doesn’t want to make Eloise uncomfortable. That’s what has her saying, “You’re awesome too! I’m just grateful someone as badass as you wants to hang out with me…”

“You’re pretty badass too, y’know?” Eloise tells her. “The few people who’ve actually spoken to me and not run away mentioned that you cold-clocked a guy last year.”

This was, in fact, not what Frankie had been expecting. She flushes. “Wh-who told you that?” Shit. The last thing she wanted was for Eloise to think she was some dumb jock who talked with her fists.

Eloise pauses, then reaches across the table and places her hand atop Frankie’s to calm her. “I apologize if I’ve upset you.”

“No, no, it’s… just not somethin’ I’m proud of.”

“Why? I understand you were standing up for your friend. That’s rather noble.”

Really? Looking back, the only word Francine can describe that encounter as is painful. Her knuckles ached for days afterwards. “Thanks,” She bashfully rubs the back of her neck. “Brianne thought so too.”

Eloise’s hums in agreement as her fingers wrap around Frankie’s palm. It’s a simple,  _ platonic _ gesture that has Francine about to lose her shit. Thank God, the server shows up with their drinks.

“Here we are, ladies!” He beams, and Frankie shifts her hand aside so that he can set the beverages down. “We also have a special today. A chocolate lava cake on the house!” At that, another waiter emerges from the back with the delectable dessert in hand. “Enjoy and happy Valentine’s Day, lava-birds!” They leave.

Francine stares at the cake before them, her eyes the size of saucers. Eloise, as usual, appears unperturbed. As if she hadn’t just witnessed what Francine had. Someone assumed they were in a relationship. Of course, quite the opposite has happened to Frankie, but this? This is new and uncharted territory. Dangerous waters.

“Um,” Francine keeps her hands firmly clasped in her lap. “Should we tell them?”

“Tell them what?” Eloise picks up her spoon and gets a scoop of cake. Her lips part daintily as she takes a bite. 

All Frankie can do is stare. Is Eloise really that unaware of how graceful she looks eating cake and also what the hell that cake means? “That we’re not dating…” Francine explains. 

Eloise’s response to that is a gentle, closed-mouth smile. “Why ruin the moment? At least they were polite about it. Most would just assume otherwise. Inclusivity is nice, don’t you think?”

“Y-yeah, I’m not sayin’ it isn’t. I just… didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Eloise regards that with a shake of her head. “Why would I be? Now,  _ you’re _ assuming things, Frankie.”

Francine’s jaw drops. Eloise can’t possibly be implying what Frankie thinks she is. Right?

Eloise must notice Frankie’s face because she sets the spoon aside and continues. “I wasn’t expecting to ask you this so early on, but I suppose it’s now or never,” She clears her throat. “Frankie, I’m not sure if you’ve been able to pick up on my hints and whatnot, but… I think you’re great and I’m interested in a romantic relationship… with  _ you.” _

Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe how Francine feels.  _ Like an idiot  _ is a more appropriate term. 

She blinks and picks her jaw up off the floor, not even trying to hide the crack in her voice as she says, “A-are you serious!”

Eloise gives a quick nod. “Yes.”

“I… I thought it was just me!”

“It was not.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t know I like  _ girls!” _ That part comes out a little louder than Francine expected. The bookworm in the corner is now watching them with fervent interest.

But, Eloise hardly seems to notice the onlooker. She responds, “I figured that out on my own. It wasn’t difficult. You’re wearing cargo pants and a men’s shirt, for Christ’s sake.”

Francine gives a short breath of a laugh. “I’m so…  _ relieved,” _ She exhales, resting her hand on the table. Frankie can’t believe how clueless she was to Eloise’s flagrant innuendos. God, she’s a dumbass. She’s gotten so used to heteronormativity. So used to not saying anything that might be taken the wrong way because you never know if a straight person will feel threatened. So complacent with being the  _ only one _ that she almost missed out on something real and genuine. Powerful. “I thought… I’d have to settle for just being friends. That’s happened so much already.”

Tentatively, Frankie moves her hand across the table until her pinky just barely grazes Eloise’s. Eloise closes the distance, lacing her fingers through Francine’s. Her hand is warm. Her eyes are warm.

“Well,” Eloise smiles, showing a few teeth. “It certainly won’t happen with me. To tell you the truth, I’ve liked you since the day we met… and you sat with me in the cafeteria and spilled milk down your shirt.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that had to be when it started for me too.”

Eloise laughs. And the next thing Francine knows, she’s laughing too. She likes the feeling of sharing this moment with someone so special. She likes the feeling of Eloise’s hand in her’s. She doesn’t want this to end.

Homework is quickly forgotten as the two enjoy the cake and sip on their watered-down beverages, their hands never parting. They talk about everything, conversation coming so easily now.

“So, how was your first lesson in Frankie-ology?” Francine asks. 

Eloise leans forward, and for a moment, Frankie thinks she’s going to kiss her. Instead, she wipes a chocolate crumb from Frankie’s cheek. “Just as interesting as I anticipated,” She says.


	5. Dead

I am heading into the boys’ restroom after band practice when I get this terrible headache. Crippling and debilitating. My ears are ringing. My vision becomes blurry. I fall to my hands and knees on the grimy floor. I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I hyperventilate. It feels like I am falling through the floor.

Down

Down

Down

To Hell.

The headache passes after a few moments, but the experience scares me so much that I begin to cry. Maw Maw has warned me about that place.  _ Hell. _ I never want to go there again.

When I get home, I tell Momma about my unwanted, unexpected trip. She gives me some pain reliever and tells me to drink more water.

…

Over the next few days, I find that these headaches always occur whenever I go to the school restroom after practice. I begin to avoid the restroom. But the headaches follow me. To my house. To the library. There is no escape. They are coming to me every day.

I take more and more pain relievers, hoping it will all go away.

It doesn’t.

…

I am tired all the time. No energy. I attribute this lethargy to the headaches. It feels like I am moving in slow motion. And the world is whizzing past me, leaving me in the dust. 

Then, I no longer find enjoyment in things I used to love. Playing guitar or reading books. Watching cartoons or playing video games. They seem like chores. The only thing I feel up to doing is sleeping.

So, I do.

Pops wakes me from my slumber and tells me to go outside and play. “Boy, when I was your age, I stayed outside ‘til the streetlights came on,” He says.

I go outside, but I don’t play.

…

I am sad. I keep thinking about what we learned in history today. The Holocaust.  _ Genocide. _

And last year, The Trail of Tears.  _ Forced removal. _

And before that, The Middle Passage.  _ Certain death. _

I think about my ancestors who struggled. I think about people who are still struggling now. Like Momma, who works long hours to take care of me, Like Pops, who looks tired every day. Like Maw Maw, with her ailing body and chronic pain.

I can’t seem to hold back the tears. I cry and cry until I feel sick. I go to the kitchen for more pain relievers. 

Momma stops me and tells me to pray. “Lay all your burdens on the Lord, baby. He listens. And stop takin’ so many of these damn pills!” She says.

I don’t take the pills and I don’t pray.

…

My grades are slipping. Instead of A’s and B’s, I have C’s and one D. My parents confront me about it before bedtime. They are yelling and screaming that I need to try harder, do better, be better. I am so tired, so sick of hearing these words that I do something I have never done before. I walk away from them, heading to my room. I slam the door.

I am upset. Angry over every little thing. My mother, who forced me to eat carrots at dinnertime even though I hate them. My father, who rarely has time to play video games with me anymore. I scream into my pillow before beating it with my fists.

Thankfully, they are both too tired to deal with me.

…

For the past few days, I haven’t been eating much. A few chips and a couple sips of water. Even with those few morsels, I feel like I’m going to throw up. Momma and Pops don’t take notice.

Maw Maw does. “You need to eat more, baby boy! You gettin’ skinny as a toothpick!” She says when I come from my room for another glass of water.

I take a bag of chips to my room, but I don’t eat.

…

I feel dead inside, outside, all over. A dead man walking. I fall and scrape my knee while coming home from the bus stop. It is the only time I feel alive.

So, I purposely hurt myself. From scratching and picking my skin to biting my cheeks and even burning my skin with Maw Maw’s cigarettes when she’s not looking.

I feel the life coming back.

…

I am making an actual attempt at doing my homework when Maw Maw sits down beside me at the kitchen table. I put my pencil down and look at her.

She takes my hands in her old, weathered ones and looks at me with sad eyes. My mind races. Is she dying? Are Momma and Pops dead? Are we being evicted?

She says, “Baby, I know you hurtin’. Maw Maw knows exactly what you goin’ through. See, I done had the devil on me like that. I heard him everywhere I went. He told me awful things. Told me to hurt myself. I listened to him for a while. I got so tired and weary, I wanted to give up. Then I had yo’ Pops and I realized I had somethin’ else to live for. Today’s a different time, and we can get you help that I couldn’t’a gotten back then.”

Her eyes are wet and I realize that mine are too. We cry together.

Maw Maw holds me tight. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner, baby boy. I’m so, so sorry. We gon’ get you the help you need.”

…

Momma and Pops take me to a doctor. The waiting room is clean and quiet, so much unlike the waiting room at the free clinic where we usually go. I think about how much it’s costing my parents to bring me here. Momma and Pops don’t talk about that, though. They talk about how much they want me to get better. 

Then, the door in the corner opens, and there’s the doctor. She looks like me, which is something else I didn’t expect. I leave my parents there, and follow the doctor into the back. Her office is nice and clean with two big, fluffy chairs. We sit and stare at one another. 

“This is a bubble,” She says. “You can tell me anything and know that it’ll stay right here. Don’t be afraid here.”

I feel like I can talk to her, like I can tell her all of the dark things in my mind.

So, I do.

…

I crack the door to the bubble and listen to the doctor tell Momma and Pops what’s wrong with me.

The doctor speaks in a hushed tone. “The headaches, fatigue, irritability, loss of appetite, and self-harming are symptoms of depression. You should thank his grandmother for noticing the signs.”

“My God!” Momma says.

“He’s thirteen! How did this happen?” Pops asks.

“These things can’t be explained,” The doctor explains. “Genetics and dramatic changes in one's life play a role, but for some people, depression emerges for no reason. The good news is your son can feel like himself again. With therapy and a few lifestyle changes, he’ll be back to normal.”

I close the door quietly, smiling to myself. To feel normal. That’s all I ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so often, mental illnesses go unnoticed and untreated in poc families because of the stigma of them being "white". mental illnesses do not discriminate, no matter your race, gender, or economic background. this chapter is a success story as the boy's grandmother was astute enough to realize that something was wrong with him. if you notice changes like these in a loved one, don’t let them go unanswered. get them the help they need. (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)


	6. Wanna Switch? (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last installment of frankie and eloise! i enjoyed writing for these lovely girls so much! i'm hoping to make their story into a novel with @princesadaisy someday... anyway, here's some more good [art](https://princesadaisy.tumblr.com/post/190953902475/thinkin-bout-that-special-someone-thanks-to)!

Frankie wakes up Monday, mad as hell that the weekend is gone. Even the sweet sounds of Lesley Gore emanating from her alarm can’t coax a smile out of her. Instead, fleeting memories of the past two days race through Francine’s mind.

How perfect Saturday was with Eloise. After finishing at the café, they walked across the street to the outdoor farmers’ market that comes every weekend. They smelled the fresh fruits and vegetables, enjoying the warm afternoon sun and good company.

Then on Sunday, Brianne came over to Frankie’s to get all the deets of their date— because that’s what it was. Francine spent the remainder of the day texting Eloise and working on the homework they never finished. (She learned that Eloise liked the nail polish emoji.) It was idyllic. 

And now it was gone.

Frankie knows that she’ll see Eloise in homeroom. But it won’t be the same. Their perfect, beautiful weekend together will be swept away by the negativity and mundaneness of school. Exasperated, Francine shuts off the alarm clock and reluctantly gets out of bed before she can get any deeper in her feelings. Lesley’s music has that effect.

Frankie bumbles around her room as she gets ready for school, humming and dancing to the music in her head. Mornings before school are usually anxiety-ridden and tense. Last semester, Frankie would have sighed and sulked through getting ready for school. But today, she feels just the opposite, and it’s all because of Eloise. High school isn’t so bad when you’ve got someone who makes it enjoyable. Francine twirls and sings as she gets dressed. She twirls and sings as she does her hair. With so much twirling and singing going on, she loses track of time.

Next thing she knows, Momma is shouting down the hall, “Francine! Quit that ass-draggin’ and get out here! Brianne’s been waitin’ out here for fifteen minutes! Y’all goin’ to be late!” Crap. Frankie looks to her wristwatch, her eyes bulging at the time. Momma’s still hollering. “How many more tardies can you get ‘fo they start givin’ you detention?”

Frankie’s voice is shrill. “I dunno, Ma! I’m comin’!” Hurriedly, she grabs her backpack, sports duffle, and some shoes, then heads out of her bedroom.

Brianne and Frankie’s mom are standing in the kitchen, both of them nursing a cup of orange juice and presumably talking about Frankie’s lateness.

“What took you so long?” Momma asks, not that she gives Frankie a chance to respond. “Here, take your breakfast with you. Y’all be safe and have a good day!” She hands Frankie a foil-covered plate and pushes them both out the door with surprising efficiency.

Once the two finally get settled in Brianne’s truck, it’s six-fifty and school starts at seven. There was no way they’d make it across town and be in their seats in ten minutes. That gets Frankie thinking. Senioritis is a bitch and Frankie really doesn’t want bacon and eggs right now, so she gives Brianne her plate of food— who gratefully accepts— and suggests something that she wouldn’t have last month. “Hey, can we swing by  _ Sunrise Café?” _

Brianne crunches on a piece of bacon. “Sure!” Francine is truly lucky to have such a lax friend. They turn off Main Street and Brianne double-parks the dually in the parking lot across from the café. Just when Francine’s about to hop out, Brianne asks something Frankie wasn’t expecting. “Anytime I suggest  _ Sunrise, _ you say no. What gives?”

Frankie smiles inwardly, thinking of Eloise. “I’m learnin’ to be more open.”

…

Francine gets to Missus Donovan’s class nearly thirty minutes late. The pledge is done, attendance has been taken, and they’re still doing the warm-up. Typical Missus Donovan.

Frankie drops the tardy slip in the trash can by the door and makes her way to her seat. Eloise is there in the desk before Frankie’s, reading a book and looking bored. Her blank face becomes not-so blank when she sees Francine. Francine’s heart threatens to beat out of her chest. 

“Hi,” Frankie says when she sits.

“Good morning,” Eloise turns around in her seat. “Slept late?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Francine pulls out her notebook from her backpack along with a baggie from  _ Sunrise. _ “Actually… I have somethin’ for you.”

Frankie hands Eloise the paper bag, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Not because she’s giving her crush a gift in the middle of class, she could care less about the peanut gallery. But because there’s a part of Francine’s mind that’s afraid Eloise won’t like it. That Eloise will throw the bag back in her face and scorn her.

But Eloise’s face is anything but contemptuous as she opens the bag and pulls out a chocolate-covered glazed doughnut with rainbow sprinkles. Her half-lidded eyes are wide, her smile is lovely, and she whispers sweetly, “No one’s ever bought me a doughnut before…”

Francine falters. “Not even your parents?”

“Not like that,” Eloise giggles softly. “You know what I mean. From someone I like.”

Oh.

“It was nothin’,” Frankie twiddles her thumbs. “I had two, but Brianne ate—”

Before she can finish her thought, Eloise leans forward and chastely kisses Francine on the apple of her cheek. She lingers for a moment, smelling of earthy perfume. “Thanks for thinking about me,” She says.

If Francine is being honest, there hasn’t been a moment since Friday when she has not thought about Eloise. Of course, she doesn’t say that. “N-no problem.”

By now, the kids sitting around Frankie and Eloise are watching with the same fervent interest of that bookworm at the café. Frankie can’t understand what’s so intriguing. The straights are hella confusing. Even Missus Donovan is in on the ogling. She smiles, “That’s very sweet, Miss Woodridge, but let’s pay attention to the lesson, okay?”

Frankie nods. Eloise hums as she turns around to enjoy her doughnut. Francine sighs contently. She doodles in her notebook for the rest of the period. She imagines her and Eloise holding hands and flying together throughout the cosmos. Pretty righteous stuff.


	7. Tracing Tracy

“Who’s a good boy?”

Certainly not James who tears up your slippers, who chews up the newspaper, who can’t even be called a guard dog. But try telling Tracy that.

“You are!” Tracy beams.

You grimace. James— with his scruffy coat, hoarse bark, sharp claws— was not a good boy. But you love Tracy and can’t bear to crush her spirits, even if it means putting up with a not-so-good-boy dog.

“You wanna go for a walk? Huh? Huh, boy?”

James looks rather unenthused. He’s probably thinking about chewing up your new hiking boots. But Tracy clamps on his leash and drags him out the front door before he can complain otherwise.

“Be back in a few!” She throws over her shoulder with a golden smile.

“Be safe, babe,” You say, going back to your hole-ridden newspaper.

You hate that dog, but you love that woman.

…

It is thirty minutes later, and you wonder what’s keeping Tracy so long. She rarely walks James for longer than twenty minutes. He’s far too lazy to go for any longer.

You start to clean up the breakfast dishes, figuring that Tracy got caught up with your long-winded neighbors. That makes you chuckle. Tracy never has the heart to tell them she’s busy, so she usually ends up listening to them ramble on about their precious azalea plants.

You finish the dishes, heading back into the living room to straighten up some when you hear that familiar hoarse bark. James. You sigh. Your few moments of peace are gone.

“Mister Thomas catch you today?” You ask Tracy. Only, her response never comes because the door is still closed. What?

You go to the door and open it, finding James there on the welcome mat, disheveled and frantic. He won’t stop spinning around in circles and pulling on your pants leg. His leash is gone and so is Tracy.

“James,” You stoop to his level. “Oh my God. What happened?”

James takes off down the walk. You follow him. Where is Tracy?

… 

It is two hours later, and Tracy is nowhere to be found. You talk to the neighbors. Mister Thomas says he hasn’t seen her at all. He offers to help you look for her. Together, you, Mister Thomas, and James walk the path Tracy has taken every day for the past few months. You find nothing.

You head back home, thinking maybe she is there. She isn’t. She’s gone. Mister Thomas promises you he’ll let you know if he hears anything.

You pace back and forth in the kitchen. You are in disbelief. This is a safe neighborhood. It’s nine in the morning. Broad daylight. How could this happen? You wish Tracy had brought her phone with her. Maybe then you could have gotten to her. 

Across the room, your phone buzzes. Tracy? You practically run to the phone. It’s your boss, Meredith. She has sent you a text asking if you are feeling well. You let her know that some personal issues have come up. She tells you to take the day off.

You don’t know what else to do. You call your mother.

“Momma?”

“Hey, baby. You usually don’t call me this ear—”

“Momma, Tracy’s missin’, I don’t know where she is.”

Your mother is a level-headed woman. She provides you a level-headed answer. “Okay, okay, slow down and tell me what happened.”

You do. And as you retell the events, you realize that you are the only thing Tracy has. The only one looking for her. Tracy’s parents died when she was young, and she was raised by her grandfather who recently passed away. If you don’t look for her, no one else will. You tell your mother such.

She agrees. “Black women aren’t a priority to the police. We’ll do better lookin’ for her on our own. I’m comin’ right now, baby.”

… 

It is one day later, and you and your mother spent all day and night searching for Tracy. None of her friends have seen her, the neighbors know nothing, and James is a wreck. If only that dog could talk, maybe then you would have a clue as to where she could be.

With no other options left, you and your mother go to the police station.

There’s a white man at the front desk. You tell him, “My girlfriend is missin’. I need help findin’ her.”

The man doesn’t look up from the papers he’s reading. “How long’s she been gone?”

“One day.”

He reaches into his desk and shoves a packet of papers at you. “Fill out a report,” He says.

You realize as a black man, you are but another worry to them. Tracy is a black woman and she is the least of their concerns. This makes you angry. Angry enough to kill. But you set your jaw and hold your tongue. 

You sit and fill out the papers, your mother at your side. You do this for Tracy.

…

It is one week later, and you have not gone to work since Tracy disappeared. Your mother has stayed with you since.

Every morning, you call the police station and ask for updates. You check the news, make a new post on social media, and text Tracy’s friends. Then, you take James for his walk on the same path, hoping to find anything. James becomes agitated about halfway through, and you figure that’s where Tracy went missing. You take James home, suddenly feeling agitated too.

“Honey, you feelin’ okay?” Momma asks when you come in the door.

You let James off his leash. The dog sighs before crawling back under the couch to his dark solitude. You do the same.

…

It is one month later, and you convince your mother you are fine. You tell her to go back home, that you and James are learning to cope.

As soon as she leaves, you head to the bank, empty out your savings account, and drive two towns over to the office of a private investigator you found online. A white woman by the name of Johanna Quest. 

Her office is squat and sparsely decorated. She tells you she prefers to spend her resources towards doing her job and not on other amenities. You suppose she expects you to find that charming. You don’t. It annoys you.

It could be the hard ass chair or her snarky attitude, but suddenly, you can’t keep calm. You are railing at the white woman because how dare she think this is something to joke about? Tracy is gone and no one seems to give a damn. No one cares about the girl who never failed to make you snicker at her corny jokes. No one cares about the girl who cried if you stepped on a bug. No one cares about the girl with dark brown skin, beautiful hazel eyes, and a close-shaven head. No one but you.

By the time you are finished, Johanna Quest has but one thing to say. “Put your money back. I don’t want it. I’ll do this for free.”

… 

It is two months later, and you have been laid off. Meredith says your termination came from higher up, that she protested when they told her to send you the pink slip.

You don’t care. No one cares about Tracy, so why should you care about anything else?

You and James drive around for hours with no destination in mind. You hope to find enjoyment in the ride. Neither of you do.

…

It is four months later, and the PI has turned up with nothing. No leads, no evidence, not a fucking thing.

Johanna tells you not to lose hope. That’s kinda hard to do since it’s already happened.

…

It is five months later, and you have not left the house in three weeks. You have gotten by on your friends bringing you groceries and your savings account.

You lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Then you take a long shower and cry, the warm water masking your tears. You feed James. You feed yourself. Then you go back to bed.

Repeat.

…

It is six months later, and James is sick. He has not eaten in a couple of days and refuses to come from under the couch.

You push the couch back. James’ eyes are closed shut and his breathing is labored. He doesn’t move. He whimpers when you touch his side. Something is wrong.

You grab your phone from the table and call the vet, asking him to make a house visit since you are afraid to move James. The vet assures he will be there in fifteen minutes.

“Please don’t leave me,” You implore James because he is the last link you have to Tracy. Without him, you have nothing and Tracy truly will be extant. “I can’t do this without you! I-I’m not strong enough!”

James whines.

You realize that it is selfish of you to want James to stay. Your mother has explained to you enough that God calls you in whether you are ready or not. And perhaps, it is James’ time to go. You have to accept that.

So, you pet James’ head, praying that he finds peace, whether it is here on Earth or in a celestial place. In the minutes that it takes for the vet to arrive, you decide that you must get better, if not for yourself, then for James. Tracy would want that.

… 

It is a year later, and you start the  _ Tracing Tracy _ project. It is a campaign that devotes time and resources — that law enforcement seems to not have— to finding missing people of color.

The idea came to you that day when James was sick on the floor. You had reached such a low point, and you knew that you didn’t want others to go through what you did. Now six months later,  _ Tracing Tracy  _ has a following of three million on  _ Twitter.  _ Your campaign is pro bono with a roster of private investigators, therapists, lawyers, and even stress dogs.

Speaking of dogs, James has slowly become accustomed to his life as a stress-free dog. It took time and patience as the behaviorist rewired how you and James perceived each other. You have come to see him for the good boy he really is. Tracy was right.

Even with your accomplishments, you cry for Tracy every night before bed. The feeling of emptiness beside you is what always gets you. But, James hops up on the bed and lays his scruffy head on your arm and you know that Tracy is still here. You know that she wants you to go on.

So, you do.


	8. Black is Right

“I’m so nervous,” Zola mutters. She reads over her notes for the third time in five minutes. “I’m gonna mess up!”

“No, you won’t!” Mindy says from Zola’s left side. “You’re gonna knock it outta the park! I know you can!”

Zola wishes she could have Mindy’s confidence— and she would if she were taking a written test. But public speaking makes Zola want to puke and pass out. The end-of-the-year project in Mister Mills’ fifth-grade history class is an oral report of your family tree. Zola has been dreading this since December.

Mindy smiles a perfect smile. “Just look at me, okay? You can pretend it’s just us talkin’!”

Zola nods, feeling grateful for having such a good friend. Zola met Mindy last year at orientation. Mindy was new and needed help finding her way around. Zola liked Mindy’s  _ Pokémon  _ t-shirt, so she swallowed her anxiety, and asked the new girl if she needed a hand. By the end of the day, the two were inseparable, and they have been ever since.

“Zola?” Mister Mills calls her name, bringing her from her head. “It’s your turn.”

Right. Zola swallows and heads up to the front of the class. She turns around, stares back at the twenty-one faces that look so different from her.

Mister Mills says, “Tell us about your family.”

Zola clasps her hands behind her back, takes a breath, and keeps her eyes on Mindy as she begins. “Both my maternal and paternal great-great-grandparents were born after the Civil War. They were sharecroppers. My great-grandma on my dad’s side was born in Alabama and grew up to be a sharecropper too. Her parents— my great-great-grandparents— used what little money they had to send her away to New Orleans, where she learned how to sew and became a seamstress.

“She started a business and passed it to her son, my paw paw. Then, Paw Paw passed it to his son, my dad. It’s still in the family. I think my family tree is important because it shows just how far we’ve come in one-hundred years. My great-grandma was born in the twenties, overcame adversity, and started a successful, black-owned business. That’s pretty amazin’ to me.”

At the end, Zola gets a nice applause. Mindy claps the loudest. Mister Mills gives a toothy grin behind a bushy mustache. “Very good! Alright, Mindy, you’re up next.”

Zola sighs in relief as she goes to take her seat. Mindy has no trouble rushing up to the front of the class. She proclaims, “My maternal great-great-grandma was Natchitoches Native American. She married my great-great-grandpa and had eight kids! On my dad’s side, my great-great-grandpa was a plantation owner in Mississippi. I think both sides of my heritage are important because I’m not just white, I’m Native American too!”

At first, Zola thinks Mindy’s joking. But it soon becomes all too clear that she’s serious as a heart attack. This isn’t right. Mindy is white, not Native American, so why is she acting like she is? It’s terrible. Zola sets her jaw and keeps her gaze downward until Mindy finishes. And when she does, the applause she gets trumps Zola’s teeny one. The worst thing has to be what Mister Mills says.

“Excellent job, Mindy! Y’know, I’m part Natchitoches too? I love what you said about both sides of your heritage being important!”

…

“Momma,” Zola cries in the backseat of the car when her mother picks her up after school. “Momma, it was so awful! She said she was Native American and used it like it was an accessory! She got so many compliments afterward, and I didn’t get any…” 

Her mother sighs. “Zola, I know you might not understand now, but it’s just like that, baby. That’s somethin’ you gotta learn. You have to be ten times better than them just to make yourself seen.”

“That ain’t fair!”

“I know it’s not. But that’s how it is. It’s a lot of pressure to be perfect, but you don’t have to be perfect. Just be yourself. That’s all I want you to do.”

Zola sniffles and wipes her nose. “I  _ hate _ Mindy. I’m never talkin’ to her again.”

Momma shakes her head. “Don’t fault her for her mistakes. She doesn’t know any better, baby. That’s just what her parents are telling her, the stuff they want her to know. Not the bad stuff. But, that don’t mean you stop being her friend. That means you love her anyway.”

Zola looks out the window. She doesn’t want to love Mindy. She wants Mindy to take a walk in her shoes. To know how it feels to be different.

Momma watches Zola from the rearview. She says, “Y’know, there was a saying, white is right. That white folks are right about everything they do, say, and how they act. But listen to me, Zola.  _ Black  _ is right, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think every poc has felt that feeling when a yt person gets praised for doing something mediocre and you've done more and haven't gotten shit :/


	9. Inside Your DNA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so, so much to everyone who kudosed, commented, and/or read this fic! i had such a good time updating and i hope y'all enjoyed reading it too! <33

You have wanted to be White.

Don’t deny it.

From a fleeting thought of how easy it would be if you were

Just a shade lighter,

If your nose wasn’t so big,

Your hair wasn’t so kinky.

You conform and don’t wear those pants because

They’re too urban,

Too ethnic,

Too Black.

And Black is bad.

Bad,

Bad,

Bad,

Until it is good.

It is trendy to be urban.

It is cool to be ethnic.

It is funny to be Black.

But you are not

A trend,

It is not cool to be oppressed,

It is not funny to be shot.

When the bright, White light reveals it all,

What do you do?

You love your

Skin that is a shade darker,

Admire your big nose,

Appreciate your kinky curls.

You wear those pants because

They are not urban,

They are not ethnic,

They are not a race.

It is not easy being Black,

But you do it because it is

Who you are,

What you are,

How you are,

Why you are,

Inside your DNA. 

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn’t think of a good name for the fic, so i just went brother kendrick lamar bc you can’t fail with him, lol.
> 
> happy black history month, y'all!


End file.
